


A Lost Memory

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes October Spooktacular Prompts 2019 [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Childhood Memories, Flashbacks, Gen, October Spooktacular 2019, Prompt Fic, Repressed Memories, Vampires, Watson's Woes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Holmes startles Watson, causing Watson to remember something frightening he had forgotten.Written for: The 1stOctober SpooktacularPrompt — "A Haunting Thought: Whether it's a memory, an idea, or justsomething that won't get out of a character's head, have something mental haunt a character." —Watson's Woes Communityon Dreamwidth.





	A Lost Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I had planned to do a little short fic or drabble for each of the October Spooktacular prompts, but there's so much going on in RL right now that I barely had time to finish this in time to post on Halloween. Happy Halloween, dear readers!

John Watson was not a man easily unnerved. Still, atmosphere and suggestion can affect even the most even-keeled sort, and Watson had seen the truth of it many times over the years—especially since he’d been working with Sherlock Holmes. Sitting by the waning fire with no other illumination than it and a single lamp on the occasional table at his elbow, was admittedly the perfect atmosphere for reading a horror story. Even though he was generally fairly steady, upon hearing a slight sound behind him, Watson started with a small sound in the back of his throat, nearly dropping his new copy of “Dracula” by Bram Stoker when he saw a shape moving in the periphery of the lamplight.

A familiar voice spoke, as his old friend Holmes leaned down to turn up the lamp, “Easy, Watson. You’re not generally so nervous.”

For a moment, the only thing visible of the man standing nearby was what seemed to be his disembodied face, the dim lamplight casting his pale face in a yellow tinged glow. In that moment, an old memory surfaced from the depths of Watson’s mind; something buried since his childhood, something he had so completely forgotten about that it might as well have never happened, save in the occasional haunting nightmare that he could never remember clearly once he woke.

In an instant, the memory that had spun those mostly-forgotten nightmares swelled into being in his mind, stealing his breath in a sharp gasp.

> _**36 Years Ago**  
Visiting distant relatives by the North Yorkshire seaside, nine-year-old John Watson had grown tired of being ignored by the adults and his elder brother, as well as impatient for supper, so he followed some of his young cousins out the back door and off into the twilight. All five of these rarely-seen cousins were within a year or two, one way or another, of John’s own age, and it was simple enough to follow their laughing invitation to join them._
> 
> _They led him along a path that ran from the edge of the little town to the moors. Amidst some teasing and plenty of laughter, a game of hide and seek was struck up, though it mostly involved them doing their best to lose young John in the strange and rapidly dimming landscape of rocky places and small copses of trees. It didn’t take him long to figure out that this had been the goal all along and, inevitably, despite his best efforts, he was eventually alone on the moors at night, with only the moon and stars to light his way. Growing more and more afraid as time went by, John worried that he would never find the way back. Soon every small sound was a fresh source of alarm and even the simple hoot of an owl made his heart feel as though it would burst of his chest._
> 
> _Running was probably not the best idea, but he found himself doing it without any thought, until he tripped and fell—luckily enough—into a pile of fallen leaves blanketing the uneven, mossy ground. He felt the damp soaking into his knees and elbows even as several fallen branches with their own burden of accumulated leaves, disturbed by his arrival, slid down to cover him in a dank, slippery blanket of decomposing plant matter. He smelled something rank, possibly some small creature decomposing nearby or, heaven forbid, on or underneath him, and hoped fervently that the latter two weren’t the case._
> 
> _Before he could get his breath back and sort himself out, he heard movement nearby; this time not the random scratchings of small animals in the bracken, but slow, stealthy footsteps which he might not have heard at all had he not been at ground level and making almost no noise. Holding his breath, wondering if it was one of his cousins come looking for him, Watson waited in silence, thinking to scare one of those who had left him in this frightening predicament. The footsteps grew closer, pausing near him, and suddenly young John felt an unreasonably strong sense of fear overwhelming him to the point that he couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. It was as if all his limbs had been dunked in ice water. Heart again pounding in his chest, he slowly—so slowly—managed to turn his head, peering upward through the branches and leaves atop him. A tall shape, barely discernible as human, stood less than an arm’s length away from him, dappled with pale moonlight through the sparse branches above. Yet, though it looked like a man and stood there in the guise of a man, it was as unmoving and silent as a statue, John heard absolutely no sound of breath or random motion from it now that the footsteps had ceased._
> 
> _A distant noise, which John only belatedly recognised as a voice calling his name, made the man—but it **must** have been a man, what else could it be?—turn towards it on the instant, revealing a face pale as milk and as haggard and emaciated as someone who had been starved near to death. John’s own gasp was, luckily, lost in the sudden flurry of disturbed undergrowth as the frightening man took off at a run so swift that John lost sight of him in moments. It took nearly five minutes of hearing that distant voice, and then others, calling for him before John could make himself rise to his feet and answer._
> 
> _Despite having seen it in the weak light of the moon, John decided he could not possibly have seen a red glow in the man’s eyes just before he turned and made off so abruptly. _

**Current Day ~ 1897**  
That face! That pale, emaciated face in the dappled light of the moon—it was the same!

“H-holmes?” Watson stuttered, eyes widening, his voice hoarse with sudden horror. “How… you look exactly the same!” The muted thud of his book hitting the rug before the hearth barely impacted on his awareness as he watched Holmes’ expression go from curious to worried to… something else entirely.

“Oh, Watson,” Holmes said in a low, regretful tone as he came around to stand before Watson’s chair, bending fluidly to retrieve the fallen book and close it, holding it out to him after studying the title for a long moment. “I was never certain if you were the Watson boy lost on the moors all those years ago.”

“It_ was_ you?” Breathed Watson in shocked disbelief. “But, how… why… after all these years?”

“I am not quite what I was then,” Holmes replied, somehow closer without seeming to have taken a step. “I had just awakened from a long sleep; needed to feed. I very nearly did, but…” Letting his words trail off, Holmes gave of philosophical tilt of his head.

“They… they came back for me,” Watson said, voice still barely a whisper.

Holmes nodded solemnly, the toe of his left shoe not quite touching the toe of Watson’s right.

“Still,” Watson protested, meeting Holmes’ eyes in the dim golden light from the lamp, “why tell me now?”

Slowly tilting his head, Holmes’ brows drew downward, his quiet voice growing subtly deeper. “You know the answer…” He leaned in, and Watson couldn’t seem to move as Holmes’ hands came to rest upon his forearms, where they lay along the arms of the chair. “My dear… dear Watson.”

His heart beating in his chest as if it would break through his rib cage, Watson was suddenly very aware of the grip of those long-fingered hands and it was strangely unsurprising when a red glow ignited deep in Holmes’ enlarged pupils. He hardly recognised his own voice as he spoke. “Because I remembered… what you are?”

Holmes’ reply was just a growling breath against Watson’s throat: “Yesss.”


End file.
